The woods blazed beneath miles of crumpled, leaden sky, each curling leaf a bright maple ember rising and falling like your breasts at the whim of otherwise unnoticed currents. You leaned against a tree, back straight, head leaned slightly as you measured the skies. A shaft of light met you, took your face and my breath in its dancing hands. Asking if I was jealous seems poetic and rhetorical. I should have had a camera with me. I could have taken a picture. I would have kept the moment unseen in my wallet, tired paper immobile and forgotten. Instead, I carry the weight of a memory constantly ready to ambush me, squeeze my heart with fingers of regret and time. We were young; this gets old.